The Misanthrope and Other Plays

by Jean-Baptiste Moliere

Genres: Classics; Humor & Satire; Satire

Synopsis

Molière (1622-73) combined all the traditional elements of comedy—wit, slapstick, spectacle and satire—with a deep understanding of character to create richly sophisticated dramas which have always delighted audiences. Most are built around dangerously deluded and obsessive heroes such as The Would-Be Gentleman and The Misanthrope who threaten to blight the lives of those around them. Such Foolish Affected Ladies and Those Learned Ladies (both newly translated for this edition) expose the extravagant, fashionable fads and snobbery of the Parisian smart set, while the story of the falsely devout Tartuffe and his devoted disciple Orgon attracted huge controversy for its attack on religious hypocrisy. Finally, The Doctor Despite Himself forms a hilarious chapter in Molière's long-standing vendetta against the medical profession.

 

Like Shakespeare, Molière was a true man of the theatre whose comedies blend sharp insight into human nature with an unerring sense of what would work on stage and make people laugh. All his greatest achievements are included here and in the accompanying Penguin Classics volume, The Miser and Other Plays.

For more than seventy years, Penguin has been the leading publisher of classic literature in the English-speaking world. With more than 1,700 titles, Penguin Classics represents a global bookshelf of the best works throughout history and across genres and disciplines. Readers trust the series to provide authoritative texts enhanced by introductions and notes by distinguished scholars and contemporary authors, as well as up-to-date translations by award-winning translators.

Release date: July 7, 2015

Publisher: Signet

Print pages: 512

Sample

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

INTRODUCTION

Molière is probably the greatest and best-loved French author, and comic author, who ever lived. To the reader as well as the spectator, today as well as three centuries ago, the appeal of his plays is immediate and durable; they are both instantly accessible and inexhaustible. His rich resources make it hard to decide, much less to agree, on the secret of his greatness. After generations had seen him mainly as a moralist, many critics today have shifted the stress to the director and actor whose life was the comic stage; but all ages have rejoiced in three somewhat overlapping qualities of his: comic inventiveness, richness of fabric, and insight.

His inventiveness is extraordinary. An actor-manager-director-playwright all in one, he knew and loved the stage as few have done, and wrote with it and his playgoing public always in mind. In a medium in which sustained power is one of the rarest virtues, he drew on the widest imaginable range, from the broadest slapstick to the subtlest irony, to carry out the arduous and underrated task of keeping an audience amused for five whole acts. Working usually under great pressure of time, he took his materials where he found them, yet always made them his own.

The fabric of his plays is rich in many ways: in the intense life he infuses into his characters; in his constant preoccupation with the comic mask, which makes most of his protagonists themselves—consciously or unconsciously—play a part, and leads to rich comedy when their nature forces them to drop the mask; and in the weight of seriousness and even poignancy that he dares to include in his comic vision. Again and again he leads us from the enjoyable but shallow reaction of laughing at a fool to recognizing in that fool others whom we know, and ultimately ourselves; which is surely the truest and deepest comic catharsis.

Molière’s insight makes his characters understandable and gives a memorable inevitability to his comic effects. He is seldom completely realistic, of course; his characters, for example, tend to give themselves away more generously and laughably than is customary in life; but it is their true selves they give away. It is an obvious trick, and not very realistic, to have Orgon in Tartuffe (Act I, sc. 4) reply four times to the account of his wife’s illness with the question “And Tartuffe?” and reply, again four times, to each report of Tartuffe’s gross health and appetite, “Poor fellow!” But it shows us, rapidly and comically, that Orgon’s obsession has closed his mind and his ears to anything but what he wants to see and hear. In the following scene, it may be unrealistic to have him in one speech (ll. 276–279) boast of learning from Tartuffe such detachment from worldly things that he could see his whole family die without concern, and in the very next speech (ll. 306–310) praise Tartuffe for the scrupulousness that led him to reproach himself for killing a flea in too much anger. But—again apart from the sheer comedy—it is a telling commentary on the distortion of values that can come from extreme points of view. One of Molière’s favorite authors, Montaigne, had written about victims of moral hubris: “They want to get out of themselves and escape from the man. That is madness: instead of changing into angels, they change into beasts.” Molière is presenting the same idea dramatically, as he does with even more power later (Act IV, sc. 3, l. 1293), when Orgon’s daughter has implored him not to force her to marry the repulsive Tartuffe, and he summons his will to resist her with these words:

Be firm, my heart! No human weakness now!

These moments of truth, these flashes of unconscious self-revelation that plunge us into the very center of an obsession, abound in Molière, adding to our insight even as they reveal his. And even as he caricatures aspects of himself in the reforming Alceste or in the jealous older lover Arnolphe, so he imparts to his moments of truth not only the individuality of the particular obsession but also the universality of our common share in it.

Molière is one of those widely known public figures whose private life remains veiled. In his own time gossip was rife, but much of it comes from his enemies and is suspect. Our chief other source is his plays; but while these hint at his major concerns and lines of meditation, we must beware of reading them like avowals or his roles like disguised autobiography.*

He was born Jean-Baptiste Poquelin in Paris early in 1622 and baptized on January 15, the first son of a well-to-do bourgeois dealer in tapestry and upholstery. In 1631 his father bought the position of valet de chambre tapissier ordinaire du roi, and six years later obtained the right to pass it on at his own death to his oldest son, who took the appropriate “oath of office” at the age of fifteen. Together with many sons of the best families, Jean-Baptiste received an excellent education from the Jesuit Fathers of the Collège de Clermont He probably continued beyond the basic course in rhetoric to two years of philosophy and then law school, presumably at Orléans.

Suddenly, as it appears to us, just as he was reaching twenty-one, he resigned his survival rights to his father’s court position, and with them the whole future that lay ahead of him; drew his share in the estate of his dead mother and a part of his own prospective inheritance; and six months later joined in forming, with and around Madeleine Béjart, a dramatic company, the Illustre-Théâtre. In September 1643 they rented a court-tennis court to perform in; in October they played in Rouen; in January 1644 they opened in Paris; in June young Poquelin was named head of the troupe, and signed himself, for the first time we know of, “de Molière.”

Molière’s was an extraordinary decision. Apart from the financial hazards, his new profession stood little above pimping or stealing in the public eye and automatically involved minor excommunication from the Church. To write for the theater, especially tragedy, carried no great onus; to be an actor, especially in comedy and farce, was a proof of immorality. Though Richelieu’s passion for the stage had improved its prestige somewhat, this meant only that a few voices were raised to maintain its possible innocence against the condemnation of the vast majority.

Obviously young Molière was in love with the theater, and had to act. He may also have been already in love with Madeleine Béjart; their contemporaries were probably right in thinking them lovers, though all we actually know is that they were staunch colleagues and business partners. Their loyalty was tested from the first. Although the Béjarts raised all the money they could, after a year and a half in Paris the company failed and had to break up; Molière was twice imprisoned in the Châtelet for debt; he and the Béjarts left Paris to try their luck in the provinces. For twelve years they were on the road, mainly in the south.

For the first five of these they joined the company, headed by Du Fresne, of the Duc d’Épernon in Guyenne. When d’Épernon dropped them, Molière became head of the troupe. From 1653 to 1657 they were in the service of a great prince of the blood, the Prince de Conti, until his conversion. Even with a noble patron, the life was nomadic and precarious, and engagements hard to get. However, the company gradually made a name for itself and prospered. Molière gained a rich firsthand knowledge of life on many levels. In the last few years of their wanderings he tried his hand as a playwright with such plays as L’Étourdi and Le Dépit amoureux.

At last in 1658 they obtained another chance to play in the capital. On October 24 they appeared before young Louis XIV, his brother, and the court, in the guard room of the old Louvre, in a performance of Corneille’s tragedy Nicomède, which Molière followed with his own comedy The Doctor in Love. Soon they became the Troupe de Monsieur (the King’s brother) and were installed by royal order in the Théâtre du Petit-Bourbon. Though they still performed tragedies, they succeeded more and more in comedy, in which Molière was on his way to recognition as the greatest actor of his time.

Within a year he made his mark also as a playwright with The Ridiculous Précieuses (November 18, 1659), which, though little more than a sketch, bore the stamp of his originality, keen observation, and rich comic inventiveness.* Nearly thirty-eight, Molière was to have thirteen more years to live, and was to live them as though he knew this was all. To his responsibilities as director and actor he added a hectic but glorious career as a very productive playwright, author of thirty-two comedies that we know, of which a good third are among the comic masterpieces of world literature. The stress of his many roles, of deadlines, and of controversy, is well depicted in The Versailles Impromptu. Success led to success—and often to more controversy—but never to respite. He was to be carried off the stage to his deathbed. No doubt he wanted it that way, or almost that way; for probably no man has ever been more possessed by the theater.

On February 20, 1662, at the age of forty, he married the twenty-year-old Armande Béjart, a daughter (according to the mostly spiteful contemporaries) or sister (according to the official documents) of Madeleine. Though what we know of their domestic life is almost nothing, contemporary gossip, a friend’s letter, and Molière’s own preoccupation in several plays with a jealous older man in love with a flighty young charmer, combine to suggest an uneasy relationship. They had two sons who died in infancy and a daughter who survived. The King himself and his sister-in-law (Madame) were godfather and godmother to the first boy—no doubt to defend Molière against a charge, or rumor, that he had married his own daughter.

When the Petit-Bourbon theater was torn down in October 1660 to make way for the new façade of the Louvre, things looked bad; but the King granted the company the use of Richelieu’s great theater, the Palais-Royal, which remained Molière’s until his death. An early success there was his regular, elaborate verse comedy, The School for Husbands. Within a year of his marriage he wrote his first great play and one of his most popular, The School for Wives. It aroused much controversy; when Molière published it, he dedicated it to Madame; the King gave him the support he sought in the form of a pension of one thousand francs for this “excellent comic poet.” The Critique of the School for Wives and The Versailles Impromptu (June and October 1663) completed Molière’s victory in the eyes of the public.

However, his attack on extreme piety and hypocrisy in Tartuffe showed him the strength of his enemies. The first three-act version, performed in May 1664, was promptly banned. For the next five years much of his time and energy went into the fight to get it played: petitions, private readings, revisions, private performances. In August 1667 a five-act version entitled The Impostor was allowed a second public performance—then also banned. Only in February 1669 was the version that we know put on, with enormous success; and this time it was on the program to stay.

Meanwhile Molière had hit back at his enemies in 1665 in Don Juan, which he soon withdrew. In August of that year his company became The King’s Troupe, and his pension was raised to six thousand francs. A year later he completed his greatest and most complex play, The Misanthrope, which met only a modest success, and the light but brilliant farce that often served as a companion piece, The Doctor in Spite of Himself. In 1668 he displayed the bitter comic profundities of The Miser; and in the last four years of his life—still to mention only his finest plays—The Would-Be Gentleman, The Mischievous Machinations of Scapin, The Learned Women, and The Imaginary Invalid.

Molière’s last seven years were dogged by pulmonary illness. A bad bout in early 1666 and another in 1667 led him to accept a milk diet and spend much of the next four years apart from his wife in his house in Auteuil. The year before his own death saw those of his old friend Madeleine Béjart and later of his second son. As his health grew worse, he composed—characteristically—his final gay comedy about a healthy hypochondriac. Before its fourth performance, on February 17, 1673, he felt very ill; his wife and one of his actors urged him not to play that evening; he replied that the whole company depended a lot on him and that it was a point of honor to go on. He got through his part, in spite of one violent fit of coughing. A few hours later he was dead. Since he had not been able, while dying, to get a priest to come and receive his formal renunciation of his profession, a regular religious burial was denied at first, and later grudgingly granted—at night, with no notice, ceremony, or service—only after his widow’s plea to the King. He died and was buried as he had lived—as an actor.

Translations of Molière abound. Two of the most available, both complete, are by H. Baker and J. Miller (1739) and Henri Van Laun (1875–76). The former is satisfactory, but its eighteenth-century flavor is not always Molière’s; the latter is dull. Better for the modern reader are the versions of selected plays by John Wood (1953 and 1959), George Graveley (1956), and especially three others.

Curtis Hidden Page has translated eight well-chosen plays (Putnam, 1908, 2 vols.) which include three verse comedies done into unrhymed verse. Though it sometimes lacks sparkle, his version is always intelligent and responsible.

Morris Bishop’s recent translation of nine plays (one for Crofts Classics, 1950, eight for Modern Library, 1957) is much the best we have for all but two. His excellent selection includes six in prose (Précieuses, Critique, Impromptu, Physician in Spite of Himself, Would-Be Gentleman, Would-Be Invalid) and three done into unrhymed verse (School for Wives, Tartuffe, Misanthrope). His knowledge of Molière and talent for comic verse make his translation lively and racy, and his occasional liberties are usually well taken.

Richard Wilbur has translated Molière’s two greatest verse plays, The Misanthrope and Tartuffe, into rhymed verse (Harcourt, Brace, & World, Inc., 1955 and 1963). They are the best Molière we have in English. My sense of their excellence is perhaps best stated personally. I have long wanted to try my hand at translating Molière. When the Wilbur Misanthrope appeared, I decided not to attempt it unless I thought I would do that play either better or at least quite differently. When I finally tried it, I was surprised to find how different I wanted to make it. Wilbur’s end product is superb; but in his Misanthrope I sometimes miss the accents of Molière.* His Tartuffe seems to me clearly better, since it follows the original closely even in detail. Both are beautiful translations. Again and again my quest for sense and for rhymes has led me to the same solution that Wilbur found earlier.

The question whether foreign rhyme should be translated into English rhyme has been often debated and seems to me infinitely debatable. I think a different answer may be appropriate for each poet, and perhaps for each translator. Page explains his rejection of rhyme as something unnatural to good English dramatic verse; but he also recognizes that he often found it harder to avoid rhyme than to use it, and that unrhymed verse is more difficult than rhymed to write well. I think this last point explains my disappointment at some of his and Bishop’s lines. Against the point that rhymed dramatic verse is not natural in English, I would argue that it seems to me almost necessary for Molière. Wilbur has made the case brilliantly in his introduction to The Misanthrope, pointing to certain specific effects—mock tragedy, “musical” poetic relationships of words, even the redundancy and logic of the argument—which demand rhyme. In my opinion, rhyme affects what Molière says as well as the way he says it enough to make it worthwhile to use it in English, and the loss in precision need not be great.

Fidelity in meter, however, seems clearly to mean putting Molière’s alexandrines into English iambic pentameter, and, although allowing some liberties with syllable-count as natural to English, holding rather closely to the precise count that the practice of Molière’s day demanded. However, this reduction in length, while translating (which normally lengthens) even from French into English (which normally shortens), often forces the translator to choose between Molière’s ever-recurring initial “and’s” (and occasional “but’s”) and some key word in the same line. I have usually chosen to retain the key word; but at times I deliberately have not, for fear of losing too much of Molière’s generally easy flow and making him too constipated and sententious.

Molière’s characteristic language is plain, correct, functional, often argumentative, not slangy but conversational. Since in French—despite many savory archaisms—he does not generally strike the modern reader as at all archaic, he should not in English. For most of his writing, verse and prose, I have sought an English that is familiar and acceptable today but not obviously anachronistic.

However, there is much truth in Mornet’s statement that Molière is one of the few great writers who has no style, but rather all the styles of all his characters. The departures from the norm noted above are as common as the norm itself. The earthy talk of peasants and servants is in constant (and sometimes direct) contrast with the lofty affectation of bluestockings and précieuses and the pomposity of pedants; manner as well as matter distinguish a Don Juan from a Sganarelle, Lucile and Cléonte from Nicole and Covielle; Alceste’s explosiveness colors his language and enhances his opposition to Philinte; Charlotte even speaks better French to Don Juan than to her peasant swain Pierrot. To render this infinite variety the translator must call to his aid all the resources of his language—anachronistic or not—that he can command.

A special problem is that of dialect, as in Don Juan and The Doctor in Spite of Himself. To the dialect of the Ile de France that Molière uses, familiar to his audience, I see no satisfactory equivalent in English. Since part of the dialect humor rests on bad grammar (“j’avons” and the like) and rustic oaths, I have tried to suggest this by similar, mainly countrified, lapses and exclamations.

My aim, in short, has been to put Molière as faithfully as I could into modern English, hewing close to his exact meaning and keeping all I could of his form and his verve.

The edition I have mainly relied on for this translation is that of Molière’s Œuvres by Eugène Despois and Paul Mesnard (Paris: Hachette, 1873–1900, 14 vols.). I have followed the standard stage directions and division of the play into scenes. The stage directions do not normally indicate entrances and exits as such, since in the French tradition these are shown in print by a change of scenes and signalized only in that way.

I should like to acknowledge three debts: to earlier translators, especially Page, Bishop, and Wilbur; to Sanford R. Kadet for his thorough reading of the Tartuffe and valuable suggestions; and, as always, to my wife, Katharine M. Frame, for her ready and critical ear and her unfailing encouragement.

DONALD M. FRAME

COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY

The Misanthrope

THE MISANTHROPE

A verse comedy in five acts, first performed June 4, 1666, at the Théâtre du Palais-Royal in Paris by Molière’s company, the Troupe du Roi. In his privilege to print the play Molière used the subtitle Or, The Melancholy Lover (Ou l’Atrabilaire amoureux); but he later abandoned this. Molière played Alceste; his wife played Célimène; the distribution of the other roles is not known. The play was not a box-office success; after two months it was withdrawn in favor of The Doctor in Spite of Himself, and during Molière’s lifetime it was performed only a few times a year. However, it won many admirers from the first, and Boileau hailed it as Molière’s best.

Within a century Jean-Jacques Rousseau brought out the possibilities of a heroic, if not a tragic, Alceste in what he considers Molière’s masterpiece. The author’s aim, he argues, is to make virtue ridiculous by pandering to the shallow and vicious tastes of the man of the world; the play would have gained in beauty and consistency if Alceste—with whom he obviously identifies himself—had been meek toward injustice to himself, indignant against public vices; and Philinte the converse. The notion of a tragic Alceste, though not common today, may be dormant, not dead; in any case, it has had a long and vigorous life.

Yet Rousseau was quite right in seeing that Molière had made the play a comedy, and a comedy of virtue. As Ramon Fernandez shows, in the three great plays of the mid-1660s Molière was clearly testing the limits of the comic, struggling to enlarge its domain. In Don Juan and Tartuffe he had shown that vice is not immune to comic treatment; here he does the same with virtue. Perhaps even more than these two others, this play shows just how serious a Molière comedy can be. Hence the tension of the play, the problems it raises, the contradictory views it has aroused.

Of Molière’s comic intent there is no reasonable doubt; nor is there much more of his success. Playing the leading comic role (here, of Alceste), as he always did, from the very first scene he makes this fully clear. Alceste’s constant excessiveness is demonstrated from the start: it may be honorable to protest against the “white lies” of social life, but it is comic to urge suicide—to one’s best friend at that—as the only atonement for such a crime; the “objective correlative” that T. S. Eliot speaks of is clearly inadequate. An unconscious but tyrannical egoist, Alceste is always full of himself; his speech abounds in what in English would be the vertical pronoun, characteristically followed by a statement of how he wants men to be. In his first two long speeches (ll. 14–28, 41–64) he gives his own motives away as he moves from the “good reason” of pure principle to the hatred he feels (l. 43) for social pretense and at last (l. 63 and 53–64 passim) to the clear avowal of what irks him: that standardized politeness frustrates his thirst to be singled out for what he alone is.

In the same first scene, after hearing Alceste’s theory of utter frankness, his friend Philinte tests his “theoretical practice” by asking whether he would really say just what he thinks of them to such grotesques as the tedious Dorilas and the old coquette Émilie; and Alceste answers a resounding Yes. The very next scene, however, shows his failure to practice what he preaches. To be sure, he finally makes an enemy of his sonneteering rival Oronte; but this is only after much more temporizing and deviousness (“Sir . . .” ll. 267–277; “I don’t say that. But . . .” ll. 352–362), not to mention the obvious exemplum of what he told another, hypothetical scribbler, that is not at all consistent with the way he says he would, and others should, behave.

A different kind of inconsistency seems, from the early subtitle noted above, embedded in Molière’s original concept of the play: Alceste’s love for Célimène. To be sure, to most modern readers at least, this is as endearing and poignant as it is comic. But here too we find Alceste misled by vanity. From the first he is sure that she loves him and that his love will prevail and change her character (ll. 233–237). Later we find—and so does he—that he is abjectly in love with her (ll. 1371–1390) and ready to accept any explanation that will allow her to “seem faithful,” and that her love for him, such as it is, is merely the best she can manage for anyone but herself. The self-assurance of his early statements leads to a comic fall.

The “virtue” that is ridiculed in Alceste is not virtue itself but the unexamined virtue of the theorist—who talks plausibly but does not practice what he preaches—and of the nonconformist, who has eyes for all the vices of society except his own. It is the barnacles on the ship of morality, the excesses and other vices that naturally accompany Alceste’s virtues—self-righteousness, inconsistency, and consequently a certain hypocrisy—that Molière holds up to our laughter.

Alceste is by no means merely comic. Characteristically, Molière did not merely play the role, but endowed it with some of his own traits: his love, as an older man, for a younger woman, his eagerness to criticize and correct human foibles.* There is obviously something noble about Alceste, for all his comic flaws; and the sincere Éliante, the most trustworthy character in the play, pays homage to it (ll. 1165–1166):

. . . the sincerity that is his pride

Has a heroic and a noble side.

Moreover, Molière endows Alceste with a magnetism that is his alone. Not only does Oronte seek to become his friend; he enjoys the devoted friendship of Philinte, and he is the man most loved by the three leading ladies of the play. Moreover, of Célimène’s suitors, he is the only one whose love is greater than his vanity.

Even his view of human nature is shared by his main theoretical opponent, Philinte. What separates them is not their opinion of it, but their reactions. Philinte clearly finds it no more shocking (ll. 176–178)

To see a man unjust, self-seeking, sly,

Than to see vultures hungry for their prey,

Monkeys malicious, wolves athirst to slay.

Finally, this view of human nature, expounded so angrily by Alceste and so matter-of-factly by Philinte, seems to be fully borne out by the action of the play. If it is fair, as I think it is, to regard Alceste, Philinte, and Éliante as in a sense the “we” of the play, and the others as the “they”—the world, or perhaps the court; for all the principal characters are members of high society—then clearly “they” are shown to be vain, unloving, and malicious. The polished world of high society is just a lacquered jungle. And it is at least one of Molière’s aims to bring this out even while the principal railer against these vices is made, by his own unwitting flaws, a comic, not a tragic, hero.

THE MISANTHROPE

CHARACTERS

ALCESTE, in love with Célimène

PHILINTE, friend of Alceste

ORONTE, in love with Célimène

CÉLIMÈNE, beloved of Alceste

ÉLIANTE, cousin of Célimène

ARSINOÉ, a friend of Célimène

marquis

ACASTE

CLITANDRE

BASQUE, servant of Célimène

An OFFICER of the Tribunal of Marshals of France

DU BOIS, servant of Alceste

The scene is a salon in Célimène’s house in Paris.

ACT I

Scene 1. ALCESTE, PHILINTE

PHILINTE. Well then? What’s wrong?

ALCESTE.

I pray you, let me be.

PHILINTE. Won’t you explain this sudden wrath to me?

ALCESTE. Leave me alone, I say; run off and hide.

PHILINTE. Without such anger you should hear my side.

ALCESTE. Not I. I will be angry. I won’t hear.

PHILINTE. The reasons for your fits escape me clear;

And though we’re friends, I feel I must insist . . .

ALCESTE. What? I, your friend? Just scratch me off your list.

Till now I have professed to be one, true;

10

But after what I have just seen in you,

I tell you flatly now that here we part;

I want no place in a corrupted heart.

PHILINTE. Then in your eyes, Alceste, I’m much to blame?

ALCESTE. You should go off and die for very shame;

There’s no excuse for such an act as y